


dread is she

by ashers_kiss



Series: Once Upon A Greek Mythology [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Canonical Character Death, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, I'm sure this has been done, details in the notes, it still breaks my heart and I wanted it to break Emma's, it was the Trojan War and a lot of kids died in the end, referenced child death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She straightens, smile bright and just as sharp as his, eyes burning in a way that shames even her hair, and he wants to laugh again.  They only call her goddess of wisdom, the idiots, because they’ve never seen her like <i>this</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dread is she

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yunuen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yunuen/gifts).



> Greek myth AU, because why not. :S Partially inspired by [this graphic](http://dark-siren.tumblr.com/post/52779623395/adriansages-he-knew-her-well-enough-to) (which I know is art for someone else's fic, because I suck; however, I haven't read that fic, so any similarities are coincidental).
> 
> For yun, because she's sick and I want her to feel better. I started this ages ago, and she liked it, so I thought I'd try and finish it for her. Darling, one day I will write you the side story where Red and Frankenwhale rule the Underworld so firmly even Zeus won't set foot there, but today, I just have this.
> 
> (Unbeta'd, I'm afraid, because yun is the only person I know who would read it and I wanted it to be a surprise. Which means it's probably terrible and I wouldn't blame anyone for stopping here.)
> 
> I should also note that, while I have deliberately cast other characters from the show as specific members of the pantheon, I haven't written it down anywhere, because - aside from the obvious - I want people to be able to make up their own minds.
> 
> Regarding the children's deaths mentioned in the tags - as I said, it was the Trojan War. It's always been something that broke me, and I wanted it to break Emma, too. I wanted her to be _angry_ about it, as I always thought Athene would be. There is some imagery mentioned, but the only specifics are those of Hector's son, Astyanax.
> 
> Title from [the Homeric hymn to Athene](http://argonauticae.tumblr.com/post/37125048318/the-homeric-hymn-to-athena-of-pallas-athena).

The sun glints off every shiny metal surface, and even the gods struggle, squinting, because Apollo is an ass no matter whose side he’s on. Ares almost lifts an arm before he remembers, cursing. Cursing her, cursing Zeus, cursing the whole damn lot of them. Curses trying to ride a chariot one-handed, trying to control horses – _his_ horses, which was struggle even on the best of days, before. He’d enjoyed it then. (He could have another hand made, of course he could, but that would involve talking to Hephaestus and his minions, and Ares would really rather avoid that.)

Even through the glare, he sees it, a particular kind of shine that can only mean one thing. He grins, more a bearing of teeth than anything else, and though they don’t know why, most of the mortals fall out of his path before he even directs the horses.

It makes him laugh when they try to describe Athene. Always has. Brunette’s the popular one, with grey eyes, which sounds fucking _boring_. Truth is, Athene is as beautiful as befits their family (some of the braver ones in Olympus whisper that she’s even more beautiful than Aphrodite, but they do it far away from either of their hearing), as the day she broke her way out of Zeus’ skull, clawed it open and dragged herself out long before Hephaestus had gotten close enough. Truth is, Athene never lets them _see_.

Oh, but he fucking sees. But then, he isn’t some mortal blinded by glamour and smoke.

He almost expects her to have his hand, at her waist, attached to her chariot. Some kind of trophy for all the world to see, like the hair she’s too vain to bind, that burns under Apollo’s light. (And maybe if she wasn’t so fucking vain, they wouldn’t be in this mess of a war, fuck Aphrodite and her games. This isn’t a war. This is a clusterfuck of stalemates and waiting, and every day of every year crawls under Ares’ skin and itches until he snarls with it.) But there’s only Athene, eyebrows raised, waiting for him in the middle of the battlefield. They call her wisdom, but she is war, just like him, and this is where they belong. His blood races, floods through him at the very sight, surrounded by dead and dying, draped over her chariot as if she had all the time in the world.

(And maybe she does. He has a reputation for being stupid, for not paying attention, for not _thinking_. But even he can tell she knows more than they do, sees it lurking in her eyes, the corners of every short-lived smile. Sometimes he thinks Zeus would do well to learn the secrets her mother whispered inside his own skull. But then who is he to question the king of Olympus?)

“Come for me to take your other hand?” she asks, clear above the din, and her eyes dip lower. “Or maybe something even more useless.”

Ares laughs, and the mortals flinch. “I’ll have your tongue for that one.”

She straightens, smile bright and just as sharp as his, eyes burning in a way that shames even her hair, and he wants to laugh again. They only call her goddess of wisdom, the idiots, because they’ve never seen her like _this_. “Come get it then.”

*

“You wouldn’t think to look at her that the Greeks won, would you,” Aphrodite murmurs in his ear. He can smell the pomegranates on her breath as she trails long nails across his neck. There’s a feast – because of course there’s a feast, this is Olympus, regardless of who won that mockery of a war. The Greeks decimated Troy, thanks to Athene’s beloved Odysseus, and their prayers of gratitude are sticky on Ares’ skin. And yet Athene stands alone, growling at anyone stupid enough to come near.

No one ever accused Ares of being smart, now did they.

He ducks out from under Aphrodite’s arm, catches her wrist before she withdraws to press a kiss to the back of her hand (and he relishes the hatred Hephaestus glares at him just as much as he does Aphrodite’s smile, lips blood red to match her nails) and makes his way across the room, snagging two drinks as he goes.

Were he any less than divine, Athene’s own glare would set him alight. “Don’t,” she warns.

Ares holds up his stump, can’t help but grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He offers out the cups, “Celebratory drink. You look like you need one.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t unwrap her arms from around herself. He didn’t expect her to.

“There’s nothing to celebrate.” It’s barely more than a hiss, hardly audible over the sounds of Olympus making fools out of themselves, but he hears her.

He shrugs, manoeuvres the cups to down one without dousing himself in the other. “Think this lot might disagree. You heard Hera, you don’t argue with her mighty victory – ”

“That was not a _victory_ ,” Athene snarls, pushing herself off the wall, and Ares’ blood stirs. “Did you see what they did? Those were _children_.” She’s breathing hard, oblivious to the crowd they’ve gathered. Fucking idiots, Ares thinks, and he doesn’t know if he means their family or the Greeks. He saw the destruction, the blood, the tiny bodies who were not quick enough to escape to the hills. He watched what became of Hector’s son, just as helpless as Athene herself. It was wrong, all of it, souring what should have been a glorious spectacle of chaos and battle.

What fool in their right mind would ever have expected Athene to be _happy_ with those actions, committed in her name?

But he is aware of their audience, and most distinctly Hera herself, her own arms folded and her face blank, her eyes missing nothing. Like Aphrodite, her lips are stained red – knowing his mother, it truly is blood. (Ares always laughs at the idea that Zeus taught any of them anything. Everything he knows about war, about strength, he learned from Hera.)

So again he shrugs, says, “You need to learn not to take these things so _personally_ – ”

She shoves him, sends him flying across the room to crack his back off a pillar, and the wine drips down him anyway. That’s Aphrodite’s laugh he can hear, low and rich, and when he lifts his head – and one of these days, he is going to remember how far she can throw him – Hera rolls her eyes at him ever so slightly. He licks the wine from his lips and watches Hermes slip out after Athene.

He finds her hours later, when she’s managed to shake Hermes off and the lanterns have been doused. She slams him against the wall, and still she glows. She _burns_. No mortal could ever hope to see her like this, to express this in mere words or colour. Ares thinks, not for the first time, and probably not the last, that Paris was an _idiot_ , blind as well as stupid. Her mouth is hot against his, her grip tight enough to mark even his skin, and when he finally gets her to his bed she is _dazzling_ , sensual and responsive to his every touch even as she demands more from him with every breath. She fucks him past completion, beyond exhaustion, until all Ares can do is watch her, let her do whatever she will.

He isn’t surprised to wake to empty sheets. But there is a part of him that lingers before he washes her scent from his skin.

*

The 21st century is…strange. Their wars are impersonal and calculated, cruel in a way irritates the back of the mind. Everything is so fast, so immediate, and that on its own takes some getting used to.

That doesn’t mean Ares doesn’t _like_ it.

He bloody _loves_ it.

People are so much freer with their emotions, which is a relief beyond imagining after the repression of the centuries beforehand. He feeds off the petty bar fights that can consume an entire building – sometimes he even joins them – the violence that creeps through the cities unchecked. It is almost as good as the old days, even if Eris _still_ grumbles about the lack of sacrifices. (Ares figures she’s allowed her grievances. It was both their decision to leave Olympus when they did, but he can admit he hasn’t made the experience easy for her. Of course, she wouldn’t _want_ him to, would tear off his other hand at the very suggestion. “Besides,” she once said, patching him up after a particularly brutal encounter with the Egyptians – tugging on the bindings hard enough that he winced, and Eris grinned at him, daring him to complain – “what kind of fun is _easy_?”)

The nightclubs are his favourite. Fuelled by alcohol, under the mask of darkness and flashing, brightly coloured lights, people let themselves run unchecked, secure in this century’s belief that they are untouchable. Immortal. Which is beyond hilarious – to Ares, they’ve never been more vulnerable. He can reach out and twist the emotions in the air to his own ends, watch the fists fly and the blood spill. They have no idea who moves amongst them, who antagonises and goads them by their very presence.

Nothing feels better than being in the thick of humanity, of knowing how easily he could turn the mood of the room, the people pressed against him. The girl he’s dancing with – a redhead, he likes redheads, they have _fight_ to them – closed her eyes some time ago, soaking up her environment, and while part of Ares wants to shake her, _demand_ she look at him, pay him the attention and reverence he deserves, his gaze is caught on the sweat gleaming along her collarbone. He wonders how it would taste.

And then he sees her, and suddenly he couldn’t give a damn about this girl.

He doesn’t bother to excuse himself, leaves her on the dancefloor, alone. He can hear her curse him when she realises, and if he really cared to, he would make her pay for it. But right now he has more important matters to deal with. Eris would tell him he’s a fucking idiot. But Eris isn’t here.

He hasn’t seen Athene for centuries, but it is unmistakeably _her_. He has never seen hair so bright, even in this dark little place.

Ares doesn’t try to hide. She’s watching the crowd, waiting for something, someone, and he watches for the moment she sees him, for the knowledge to wash across that oh so expressive face as her eyes widen, before her mouth goes flat and she straightens out of what _had_ been a fair impression at relaxed. Ares grins and sweeps into a bow, low and wide, and the mortals are smart enough to give him a wide berth.

Athene glowers at him when he lifts his head. She never did like that – which just makes it all the easier to piss her off, as far as Ares is concerned. “You’ve been hiding,” he says softly. Just loud enough for her to hear him over the music.

She grits her teeth and jerks her chin at the hook he started wearing long after he left Olympus. “That’s a dangerous weapon.” She sounds like a local, like an _American_ , her voice flat and hard – but still something musical lingers in it, something that must captivate humanity as much as it fascinates him.

“Darlin’,” Ares says, straightening with a flourish Eris would never let him live down, “I _am_ a dangerous weapon.”

She rolls her eyes, and Ares doesn’t even think it’s because of the accent he’s developed, the one he picked up from a tiny little island, that Eris still laughs at him for (but who could resist the chance to run with the pirate _queen_ , he always asks her). “Keep dreaming,” she tells him, and Ares is in her space before he thinks about it, his good arm braced against the wall above both their heads. Athene lifts her eyebrows – Ares knows a challenge when he sees one. For just a moment, he remembers her mouth on his and the scrape of the wall at his back.

“I’m working,” is all she says.

Ares tsks, dips his head to whisper in her ear. He doesn’t touch her; he’s stupid, he isn’t suicidal. “Is _that_ all you’ve got to say to me, after all this time?” She still smells the same, sharp metal under such sweet flowers he never had a name for, and he can’t help but close his eyes. He can feel her breath catch against his throat.

“Is there anything else to say?” She’s holding herself so very carefully, so very _still_ , such a contrast to the last time they were so close. Shivers run down his back; he wonders about the spot at the curve of her neck, the one that made her buck and scream like a damned harpy when he pressed his mouth against it. He _wants_. He wants to touch her, feel her move under his hands again and slam him up against the wall. Wants to put on a show for the mortals, the likes of which they’ve never seen, keep her all to himself.

Athene shifts, lifts her chin just enough to invite him (always putting him where she wants him, and they called _him_ manipulative). He swears he hears his name, breathed soft under the music and the pounding of both their pulses. One of her hands – so much smaller than his, paler and rough with calluses that scraped against his skin – slips inside his coat, and Ares can already feel the heat of it. His own breath stalls, and he waits, waits and waits for her to work her way under his clothes, to _touch_ – 

“This guy bothering you, Emma?”

Ares twists, snarling, about to tell whoever dares to interrupt them to _fuck off_ , when Athene finally touches him – pushes him, controlled, enough to move him without making a scene. “It’s fine, Graham. I got this.” And there, there is the glare, the warning. _Don’t._ “He was just leaving. _Weren’t_ you,” she adds, and the power leashed in that voice could make mountains tremble. His fingers twitch. What he wouldn’t give to set it loose…

But Athene is still watching him, steady, waiting, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Ares knows he is not supposed to argue. He’s supposed to slink off, obey. Leave Athene and her latest plaything to their quest, whatever it is this time (because there’s _always_ a quest when it comes to Athene). But his pulse is still stuttering in his ears, and he never was very good at doing what he was told.

So instead he turns, looks her new toy up and down, and oh, but he does fit. Athene has always had a type, and this one is just as perfect as Odysseus was. Tall, taller than Ares – most of them are – and he even has a beard, his voice so similar to Ares’ own adopted lilt. Give him a ship and a little wooden horse, Ares thinks. He grins up at him, just to watch him scowl. “I dunno,” he says, loud, “things might be getting interesting.”

“They’re not,” the boy growls. He’s a great fighter, Ares can tell. Eris would like him. Hell, Aphrodite would _love_ him.

“We’re working,” Athene repeats, shifts just enough for Ares to catch sight of the star on her belt, hidden under her jacket. Of course. She is justice, _Athene Polias_. Can’t expect a millennia or two to change that.

Ares holds up his hand, lets his grin go soft and easy. Mortals used to run screaming from the sight of that smile; Athene’s toy bristles. “I won’t interrupt, promise,” he says. “ _Emma _,” with the barest of emphasis on the name, too short and hard in his mouth, “and I were just…catching up.”__

Graham – that’s his name, isn’t it – Graham sways ever so slightly, and oh, this one will be _easy_ – 

And then Athene is between them, breaking the connection with a hand on Graham’s chest to push him back as this time she invades Ares’ space, barely a breath between them. Graham stumbles, and Ares can’t even take a moment to revel before Athene hisses, “Leave him,” eyes crackling with fire that would make anyone _sane_ shield themselves and run.

Ares tilts his head, turns his grin on her – it’s going to do nothing but piss her off. “Aren’t we possessive.”

“He’s under my protection.” It’s forced through her teeth, and it’s not what he wanted, but he’ll take it. “You _know_ what that means.”

He can’t help it. He laughs, harsh and short under his breath, because as if he could _forget_. “And I bet you’re having _so much fun_ with that – ”

The blow doesn’t knock him across the room this time, but now his ears are ringing for quite a different reason and they have most _definitely_ attracted an audience. He can hear Athene, low and angry, “Get him – just get him out, I don’t care, let her fucking – ” and he thinks, she wouldn’t let him near Graham again. Then he’s being hoisted, arm across someone’s shoulders, and it isn’t until then he realises he was on the ground. More of a reaction than he thought.

It takes him time to lift his head long enough to place whoever’s unlucky enough to be dragging him outside – the mortals giving them plenty of space, for once in their short little lives showing some _sense_ – and almost wishes he hadn’t bothered. He drops his head with a groan. “Can’t get rid of you fucking bastards all of a sudden.” He can taste the barest hint of blood on his tongue.

“Shut up, Ares,” Hermes says tightly. He’s still wearing that stupid trench coat Ares last saw him in, the day Eris ripped out the heart of man they were calling Jack the Ripper, although the leather has lost most of its shine. He dumps him on the street – quite literally; Hermes is another one of those tall fuckers, and it’s a long way down – and stands over him until Ares can shove himself into sitting. He doesn’t need to look up, he can feel the glower burning through his skull.

Fuck the lot of them, Ares thinks, digging the heel of his hand into his forehead. Maybe if he presses hard enough, everything will stop echoing around him. “What.”

Hermes huffs, almost a laugh. He’s always been a smug bastard. “I’ve called for Eris.”

“Fantastic.” Ares squints up at him. “What, you want a medal? My undying gratitude? The chariot’s still back on Olympus, you want it, you go get it.”

That’s definitely a laugh, short and clipped. “You haven’t changed.”

“Well that’s a bit pot and kettle, considering. Never dreamed you were still chasing after Athene’s skirts – more fool me, eh?” He gives his brightest, most blinding grin, and watches Hermes’ face darken – it’s been so long, so _long_ since he had a proper fight, since there was someone who could even possibly challenge him, and he can feel it itch under his skin, shifting and twisting, ever since he first set eyes on her – as he spits, “You’re an asshole.”

He stalks back towards the club, crossing the street in mere steps, and the bouncers step out of his way without a word. Ares prods at his teeth with his tongue. He’d forgotten how _unimaginative_ the bloody lot of them could be. Asshole, _honestly_. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been called that, and worse, a million times before.

It’s a sentiment Eris echoes when she finally appears, hair drifting down from where she’s piled it up on her head. Ares grins at her. He’s pretty sure his teeth are stained red now. “Hello to you too, love.”

“Don’t call me that,” she mutters, but she still pulls him to his feet and lets him lean on her. There’s a boy, a rather pretty one, hovering about with that vacant glaze to his eyes all Eris’ conquests tend to have. She hisses at him, shoos him away with a flick of her wrist, and Ares cranes his neck to look after them, watch the boy stand there, lost and staring back at them.

“He was pretty,” he protests, and Eris practically growls. She doesn’t talk to him the rest of the way back to the ship, and even then she slams about, muttering under her breath and probably waking the boys. Who Ares is in _no mood_ to be dealing with. He reaches out, catches her by the wrist and pulls her into him. Eris arches an eyebrow and waits.

Ares swallows. “I’m sorry, Ris.” His thumb strokes over the inside of her wrist without much of his say, but it seems to calm her. He watches the flames behind her eyes bank as her shoulders ease. Even her hair settles – she really _had_ been pissed.

“So you should be,” is all she says, though, and presses a cloth soaked in something that stings to his jaw. Ares yelps, flinching, and Eris frees herself, twisting to hold the cloth in place with his own hand, and fetches them some beers.

Later, sitting on deck with her feet propped up on the rail, she asks, “So who was it?”

Ares looks out at the dim little lights of the city, listens to the creak of his ship, and takes a long, long pull from his bottle. He can still smell those damned flowers. “No one important.” He doesn’t need to see Eris to know the look she’s giving him. He wouldn’t believe him either.


End file.
